The Duchess of the Western Skies

It’s evening but with morning eyes, the Duchess of the Western Skies is backed by reds and purples as she surveys all the little hills that flatten for her if she wills it – which is not so often. I am talking to her lap and whispering meaningless things and she sees scenery as clearly as the air after it rains: each blown off leaf or pushed back blade of grass – I fasten myself to her to make sure she straightens out her posture – crooked apostrophe shaped lockings of our vertebrae (I trace each one a thousand times a day). And all the world is happy to allow her to be happy – all the fireflies are laughing from the dark but sturdy scaffolding of branches on the lone tree that dots her lonesome prairie (and the Duchess caught me staring and then, just past, a shooting star). And it’s good that we have good legs to chase the blinking lights and it’s good that we have good hands strong enough to hold but slight enough to keep the bug alive until we open – with a flourished little motion – and the Duchess says go off and tell somebody that it’s love.

~ by perfectionatrix on July 4, 2013.

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